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They were virgins to the swinging world. In their profile and over the phone they had advertised "some experience," but we could tell they'd never really gotten it on, hot and heavy, with another couple. Normally, we'd have taken that blasť attitude you take with green couples, since half the time you just never hear from them again.

Jonny and I have been swinging for quite a while. We have our group of swinger friends; we've gone swap camping; we've picked up couples, strays, even everyone's dream the "lesbian couple" at play parties -- and even when other people don't have any luck. We've indulged in an all-night orgy or two at those monster conventions in Vegas that can be fun if you don't do them too often.

But sometimes, you know, well, bells go off, fireworks and violins, and even old pros like us can lose their cool. That's what this one young couple did to us. Why? I don't know. Even as I sat there loving this tall, curly red haired woman with the doll-smooth body, eying the way her model-fine husband rested his fingers lovingly on her knees -- I mean I was literally starting to cream just looking at them -- I glanced at Jonny and saw, to my amazement, this flush of lust streaking across his neck. He wanted them too! We were like two dogs in point. And we're savvy enough to know how little looks count for when it comes to good sex partners. But there we were.

So, you know, this "ga-ga" thing was something new for two people who thought they'd seen it all. It wasn't just the couple's looks, or that they were very nice people. It was the way they were with each other. Like two big-eyed characters out of an anime film, all idealistic and fantasy. He would protect her, accommodate her gently, like a soft snow flake, and she would be folded into his touch and tucked away under a white fluffy batten like a jewel in a gift box.

Now I like real, down-to-earth people; fun-loving people, a little goofy, a little saucy. People who will get right in there and just let the cunt juice flow. So does Jonny. So this couple was not our usual menu. But when they sat there in front of us, trilling in their confidential voices as though they were connected by dream stuff, I felt like -- I'm sure Jonny felt it too -- like someone was turning back the clock, stripping me innocent again and I could believe in baku and white witches; earth gnomes and water spirits. That was the feeling. Have you ever gotten that feeling? And from a couple you just thought you wanted to fuck and have drinks with?

Jonny was stumbling at his words as he got to the good stuff.

"So what kinds of things have you done with other couples?" he asked.

We were used to parties where people just all got naked and sat by the pool or played cards; people who stripped while their hips swayed and music played; people who got suggestive and made innuendo until everyone was at each other's clothes, pawing. These two you would want to seduce ever so gently. You would want to lift one item of clothing away at a time and watch them tremble or sigh -- it would be like peeling wings off delicate insects because it would all be new to them. And when they stood there naked, you would want to blow milkweed on them and watch fine, dusty milkweed beings cling to her nipples and catch in the downy bush above his nested penis. So I imagined.

"Some kissing," answered the young man, Jason. He looked at his wife; her flounces of golden red hair caught the light. She nodded.

Jonny and I waited. And? we were thinking. Kissing what? Kissing whom? Normally we had no trouble with these conversations. With fleshing things out; getting right to brass tacks. But neither Jonny nor I said a word.

Hotly I watched the woman's youthful bosom rising and falling. The top button of her V-necked blouse revealed the lush shadow of her cleavage. I watched the dusting of small brown freckles across her chest undulate with her breasts as she breathed. Let me unveil you like a statue, I thought.

The couple did not elaborate.

What would it be like to ease my head between her legs, up inside her skirt and just nestle there, smelling her? Nudge my nose into the silk of her panties and breathe her in?

Just the week before, I was on my back and Jonny held me by the ankles, pulled my ass up and spread apart my legs so this guy named George could bury half his hand in my cunt. I dug how his hand, when he got his knuckles in, seemed to widen my hole at the bone. George's wife Lillian was biting my nipples while she fingered her own wet pussy. Grinding music with whining harmonica made us fuck hard. My husband ate Lillian until he had a mustache of her froth; I sucked my husband and George sucked me. I thought this guy was going to suck the clit right off my cunt. We eventually got the anal toys going, everyone had something up his or her ass, something in his or her mouth. We did it all raw and tumbling and unplanned, someone coming here, there, coming again, grabbing at body parts. It was one of those evenings when I'd reached the perfect combination of wine and BBQ before we set out to play. And by the end, our fuck mat was soaked with juice, lube, splooge, saliva.

And here we were today, tongue-tied and blushing -- about kisses!

"On the lips," Jason said softly.

"I meant --" Jonny stumbled.

"I was kissing the woman on the mouth, and Jason was kissing the man on the mouth," said Diona.

We pictured it. I mean, I pictured it. But Jonny was surely doing the same.

I started thinking: Just let me undo your top two buttons, girl, and fold back your blouse so your pretty, pretty breasts can -- I had to stop myself. These were newbies. And they were shy. You had to give newbies, especially the shy ones, lots of room.

I was sure she was wearing a black nylon or lace bra that would hold her breasts round and plump and color them perfect.

Do you shave your pussy? Is it tight? When I go to take your plump pussy lips and fold them back, will I see freckles on their ivory skin?

"Would you like a drink?" I said to them, my mouth suddenly dry.

"No. We have to get going," Jason said.

The tall, lean lady next to him gazed into his eyes, lovingly, graced her "yes" with a smile. Her voice tinkled like small bells. Or how could I know? My heart was pounding so hard -- seeing them rise to leave, thinking they'd go out of our lives, I panicked. This magical couple who had suddenly woken up something in me would take it back and disappear.

"I wonder," I blurted, "Do you think I could see Diona's breasts?"

My god, I was thinking. I had surely lost them. Broken every rule in the book. But my question had forced its way out, rudely, as if my mouth had a brain and my brain had gone away.

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Greta Christina has worked in and around the sex industry for over a decade writing about it, editing books about it, and living it. She edited Paying For It, a collection of articles by all kinds of sex workers: dommes, escorts, peep show girls, T-girls. She's got a novella called Bending coming out this July in Susie Bright's book Three Kinds of Asking For It (published by Simon & Schuster). In response to overwhelming member requests for reviews of sex toys, sexy films, and other sex whatnots, Ms. Christina brings her girl-about-sex wisdom twice monthly to Adult FriendFinder. Check her out on her web site, www.GretaChristina.com.
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Inside Deep Throat. Documentary. Written and directed by Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato. Starring Gerard Damiano, Linda Lovelace, Harry Reems, Dick Cavett, Gore Vidal, and more. Rated NC-17.

Well, it's a good story, that's for sure. Full of humor and suspense, rebellion and commotion, with flawed heroes and righteous villains. It's sexually incisive, politically fraught, culturally significant. And it's fucking hilarious to boot. It may not be the soft-core tease-fest you might expect from the NC-17 rating, but it sure beats some other porn-industry documentaries I could name.

In case you haven't heard about it, Inside Deep Throat is a documentary about the porn movie Deep Throat: how it got made, how it got released, how it turned into this insanely huge cultural phenomenon, how it became a focal point of hysterical controversy, how it was championed, how it was reviled, how it got banned in 23 states, how it raked in unspeakable pots of money, and how it wound up influencing some weirdly unexpected areas of our lives. It's a fine documentary, entertaining and informative, loaded with both weighty social significance and fun gossipy tidbits. If you're on the lookout for intelligent movies that don't make you want to shoot yourself from despair, put this one at the top of your list.

The main people telling the story are the ones most involved in the drama -- the director of Deep Throat, its camera guy, its actors and actresses, its distributors and bagmen -- and the folks who prosecuted all of the above on obscenity charges. The prosecutors and persecutors are chilling but fascinating, with a tight, fearful, self-righteous rage that's all too familiar in the political landscape today. (My favorite was that stalwart guardian of American morals, Charles Keating.) And I was particularly intrigued by how the court case against Deep Throat wasn't just anti-porn, but anti-clitoral -- unbelievable as it may seem, the prosecution's case actually hinged, in part, on the invalidity of clitoral orgasm.

The folks on the other side of the fence are equally intriguing. Charming and fucked-up, absurd and funny, strikingly thoughtful and deeply insane, the producers and performers of Deep Throat come across, more than anything else, as fairly ordinary '70s counterculture folks who got caught up in something way the hell bigger than they ever expected, or intended, or even wanted. And the movie is worth the price of admission alone for the sight of porn director Gerard Damiano with the old-man pants belted way above his waist.

But what really makes this movie work is the entertainingly varied cast of cultural commentators, smart and important and funny people gassing on about what the hell was going on with this movie and why people reacted to it the way they did. There's commentary from John Waters and Dr. Ruth, Dick Cavett and Wes Craven, Carl Bernstein and Hugh Hefner, Alan Dershowitz and Erica Jong, and plenty more big famous names I don't have room to list here. And to provide an easily overlooked bit of perspective, there's commentary from ordinary folks of the time, the ones actually experiencing all this upheaval and schism and social change: people who loved the movie, or thought it was a disgrace, or didn't see what all the fuss was about. (My personal favorite was the grandmotherly old lady coming out of the porn theater, saying firmly and with great spirit, "Yes, I enjoyed it. I wanted to see a dirty movie, and I saw a dirty movie. I should have the right to do that if I want.") It's these people, the smarty-pants commentators and the just-plain-folks actually experiencing the whole thing, who give Inside Deep Throat its broader perspective. Without them, it'd be just another mildly amusing "inside the porn industry" flick. Instead, it's a smart, funny, surprising film, full of broad understanding and telling detail, exploring a time of freaky agitation and serious polarization by focusing on one notably agitating and polarizing piece of the puzzle.

The documentary does tend to overstate its case. It portrays Deep Throat as a primary cause of deep cultural divisions, when it's probably more accurate to call it a marker of those divisions. It often depicts Deep Throat as the sole agent of some bit of social change, when it was actually just one agent out of many. And it's very bad about calling Deep Throat "the first" of some important trend, when it was really just one of the first. When Harry Reems referred to himself as the first performing artist in America to be arrested for obscenity, I wanted to smack him across the head and introduce him to Lenny Bruce, God rest his smutty soul.

What's more, Inside Deep Throat makes the all-too-common error of idealizing the "Golden Age" of '70s porn, bathing it in a golden Utopian light of artistic creativity and potential, while casting the video age as the evil corporate robot that ruined everyone's party. Anyone who's seen much porn knows how simplistic that is. Sure, there's a grain of truth to it -- but there's a gigantic grain of bullshit to it as well. I'll grant that the video porn era created a huge flood of generic commercial crap -- but it also made porn movies more accessible for women, created the couple's market almost single-handedly, and made the entire labor-of-love indie porn phenomenon possible. And it's not as if video producers invented the quick-and-dirty porn flick churned out to make a buck. Yes, there were some beautiful, creative, totally tasty and hot adult movies made in the 1970s. Absolutely. But there were some real shit piles made then, too.

Speaking of which. While Inside Deep Throat is a fascinating cultural document of the industry and the era and blah blah blah, it is not -- repeat -- NOT -- a very hot movie. In fact, while it's got a good amount of casual nudity and quite a bit of graphic sex talk, there's almost no explicit sex in it at all. Mostly there's just a few seconds of the fabled deep throating -- and while that may have been deeply fascinating to a '70s audience, it's hard for anyone in the 21st century to be all that impressed by it -- especially if you have any connection with the gay male community.

But the main reason for this unsexiness is that the sex... well, frankly, it's taken from the movie Deep Throat, which wasn't exactly the industry's finest hour. Deep Throat may well have been a hot-button marker of deep cultural divides and an important catalyst of social change -- but it was kind of a crummy porn movie. Even its director, Gerard Damiano, says it's a bad movie. Anyway, if you want to see it, it's readily available on DVD. So don't go see "Inside Deep Throat" if you're looking for a hot little thrill. See it if you want a smart, funny, complex look at the messy, silly, fucked-up, and weirdly beautiful phenomenon that is porn in America.
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